


Ideals and Whatnot

by insouciant



Category: Thor (Movies) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:42:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insouciant/pseuds/insouciant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maybe ideals aren't always good after all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ideals and Whatnot

**Author's Note:**

> hiddlesworth domestic au requested by [ladysquee](http://ladysquee.tumblr.com)
> 
> There's a chris pov, then third pov, then lyrics ... I hope this doesn't confuse anybody *sobs*

 

It’s late at night. The rain is drizzling outside, tapping on the windows ever so gently lulling everyone to their long awaited sleep, except for this one couple. The sound of the tapping of the rains is sadly dulled in this one particular apartment. The sound is dulled by Chris tapping rather loudly on the keyboard of his laptop. Next to him, on the side table, there is a stained, old coffee mug and the coffee inside only half drank and lukewarm. Despite the soporific sound of rain outside, Chris fights of the sleep, refusing to return to his bedroom, pouring out his frustration, and maybe anger, on the laptop like a young teenager would do, but really, _it does help to vent once in a while_ , Chris says to himself as he continues madly to type:

> How should I begin this? Yes, let’s begin like this:
> 
> Scene 1: Man number 1 (man 1) and man number 2 (man 2) are in bed together. It is a peaceful, sunny Sunday morning. Man 2’s cell phone vibrates softly under his pillow and he is quick to grab it to turn off the alarm lest _the love of his life_ sleeping soundly beside him may wake up. He doesn’t want to disturb him, resting so peacefully after a hard day’s work. He leaves the bed as quietly as possible, stepping out of the room to make coffee for the both of them.
> 
> Scene 2: Nearly an hour later, man 1 joins man 2 in the kitchen with a sleepy smile on his face. As if man 2 has been waiting for him, he slides a freshly brewed, steaming mug of coffee towards man 1. Their eyes meet and love floods out of their beautiful eyes as they close their distance. Their lips meet, their hands roaming all over each other’s skin. The coffee is long forgotten on the counter as they share their passionate, yet gentle love on the floor …

Chris scoffs and rolls his eyes dramatically. After another sip of his rather disgusting coffee, he continues:

> Cue: The sound of cassette tape rewinding crazily, almost out of control, continues for about ten seconds while scenes rewind all the way back to scene 1. The scene restarts, except with less dramatic golden sunlight shining the cozy bedroom, where man 1 and man 2 are in bed. Note: In addition to the lack of sunlight, put emphasis on man 1 and man 2 sleeping with their backs facing each other. The distance between them is less than a foot. However, a point must be made that this is due to the small size of the bed they share, nothing sentimental, at all. Another emphasis should be made that there is nothing special, or lovely, or movie like, in the small bedroom of theirs; just so… ordinary.

_Like this bland, flavorless coffee I’m drinking_ , Chris thinks to himself glaring at his cold coffee.

> Narration begins: You all had experiences of your favorite book falling apart from reading it over and over again. No? Well then, surely, you had an old cassette with a loose tape from listening to that one same song way too many times. Okay, now I suddenly feel too old for making that reference. How about that one CD you loved so much that you’ve carried it around your room and car countless of times that it ended with terrible scratches on the surface and started skipping?
> 
> Come on, we all have something we love, or used to love, reading or listening, or watching over and over again. Now, why do we do such a thing? Maybe it’s because we can relate so much to that one sentence or scene from that one song or movie. Maybe because to some, like you and me, this one special thing we can relate to so much gives us hopes and dreams; it builds the ideal for us. We start thinking, _maybe I can become rich like that person_ , or _maybe I can live that kind of life when I grow up_. Well, to me, it was _maybe I can find someone like him to share my life forever_. Yeah, all those books and songs and movies I loved pushed me to search for my ideal love.
> 
> But guess what? Like those books, cassettes, and CDs, they all just break in the end. So what breaks them? I would say the goddamn reality.
> 
> So what I’m trying to say is -

“Chris, if you’re going to type at _three_ in the morning, you better type like you’re typing at _three_ in the goddamn morning, not someone who’s typing in broad daylight at a crowded public park. You have the loudest typing fingers ever. For God’s sake, you know I’m a light sleeper.” Before Chris can retort with an equally sharp tone, however, “the voice in the dark” disappears back to his dungeon of a habitat that Chris unfortunately shares together a few hours a day at a time.

Chris huffs angrily as he returns to his typing, slamming the keyboards this time.

> So what I’m trying to say is ideals are illusions! Illusions are nothing but tricks to break our hopes and dreams and hearts! For all our lives, we desperately thrive to live that ideal life we’ve been searching for. But once we find them, what do we get? A STUPID MAN WHO IS CRANKIER AND MOODIER THAN A TEENAGE GIRL ON HER PERIOD!!!

“Chris, you either get the hell out of the apartment, or shut your laptop off and go the fuck to sleep!” The voice inside the room shouts at him with such anger that Chris is momentarily confused whether he’s living with Tom, his boyfriend of nearly three years, or an old, grumpy grandpa. _Tom would make a great Uncle Scrooge, maybe even a Grinch_ , Chris thinks and laughs at the image that follows inside his head. He finishes the rest of his decaffeinated coffee, turns off his laptop—his dramatically written vent yet unsaved—and heads to their bedroom.

When he opens the door, he rolls his eyes at the pitch dark room. He used to think that Tom was always the considerate one in the relationship, but guess he was wrong. Guess he was wrong at many things about them.

Just as he takes one more step towards their bed, he steps on an empty water bottle, squashing it with such a loud noise that even he flinches at the sound. He expects another yelling from Tom, but instead all he hears is a quiet sigh followed by a creak from the bed. Then the small nightstand lamp is on, dimly lighting up their bedroom. “I should have had the light on. I didn’t know you were going to join me,” Tom says with a tired voice and Chris hears a silent apology. And all of a sudden, all his guesses about their relationship seem to be proven wrong and Chris feels an odd sense of guilt filling up inside him.

He hears the quiet shuffling of Tom lifting the thick blankets off from his warmed body. Chris sees how the cool air sends a shiver down Tom’s body and all he wants to do is hug him tight to make his body warm again. However, Tom’s quicker with his arms around Chris’ neck, tickling his cheek with his warm breaths.

“Come to bed with me,” he says and Chris follows him without any hesitance, with nothing but love and want, the frustration and anger from less than ten minutes ago already forgotten.

.

.

_… but in your dreams whatever they be, dream a little dream of me_

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Chris wakes up the next morning groaning and moaning with exhaustion. He wants nothing more than a couple extra hours of sleep, but the song Tom’s been playing loudly—from all the songs he could have played, he plays _Dream a Little Dream of Me_ to wake him up!—in the kitchen gives him no choice but to get out of the warm and cozy bed to the kitchen where he now wants nothing more than to break that little iPod and that iPod speaker of Tom’s into small pieces so that he would never have to deal with this ever again.

“Well, don’t you look happy,” Tom comments with a smile as he sips on his tea, English Breakfast as always.

“I was happy actually,” Chris replies with his voice still half asleep, and half irritated. “I was even having a little dream of _you_ until _you_ started playing that goddamn music so loudly. Then _you_ suddenly became Hannibal and killed me and, if I’m not wrong, I think you even ate pieces of me in the end.” Of course, Chris is lying, but as long as he gets his point across, who cares, right?

“As long as you had a dream of me, it’s all good, babe,” Tom says softly tapping on Chris’ cheek handing him a cup of fresh, warm coffee, the taste just the way he wants. Seriously, how does he make it taste so perfect like this? This is why he became a coffee addict in the first place, not even knowing how to make it taste the same himself.

For a minute, drinking the coffee, Chris forgets about everything else and wants nothing more to kiss the man in front of him whose eyes are closed enjoying the music playing from his iPod-

As the thought reaches there, Chris forgets about everything sweet and lovely and returns to his default morning mood. “You better keep that iPod of yours close to you ‘cause if you ever leave it with me, you’ll never see it ever again,” Chris warns. Tom shakes his head staring at Chris like he’s a five year old kid pouting over some insignificant matter.

While Chris tries to lower the volume of the speaker, not realizing that Tom has put it on hold, Tom grabs Chris’ coffee cup forgotten on the counter and pours a big gulp inside his mouth.

“Tom, why the hell isn’t this work-” Before Chris can finish his question, Tom places his lips on Chris’. And of course, his lips open willingly for Tom. Chris feels the warm coffee slipping inside him from Tom. He moans and grabs onto Tom’s waist. It was a brief moment, but Chris can’t help but admit that something pulled inside him, something strong, something heated and passionate.

“Ugh, I hate kissing you in the mornings. Plus, you didn’t even brush your teeth after drinking that nasty coffee last night,” Tom makes a face at how grossed out he is, but Chris knows how Tom’s hands are still on his waist.

“I never asked you to kiss me, you know,” Chris replies uncaring, but Tom also knows that Chris’ hands are still on his, too. Tom closes in, once more, tugging Chris’ loose t-shirt solely to irritate him.

“You think I don’t love you anymore?” Tom asks with a small smile on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes. They look at each other—into each other—with nothing to hide, but _something is just not enough, not satisfying enough_ , Chris thinks.

Tom smirks with a tinge of disappointment exuding off his face. He wants to hide it, but it’s not like Chris can’t see it. They know each other too well that hiding anything, even the slightest, has become nearly impossible.

Their breakfast, a couple of toasts and eggs with coffee, passes in silence and Chris wants Tom to turn that obnoxious music of his again just so they won’t have to eat in silence. After wiping his lips with Chris’ napkin, Tom kisses the edge of Chris’ lips so softly that he makes Chris shiver with desire.

Of course, Tom isn’t alone when he takes his morning shower.

.

.

A few days later, Chris is, once again, on his laptop, continuing to pour out more and more words of frustration. The last few days were as ordinary as they could be: several rounds of bickering and arguing, then going back as if nothing has ever happened between them. But something definitely felt different about it; Chris was certain of it. The frustration he’s pouring out on his laptop this afternoon, surprisingly, isn’t from Tom—a little bit is because of Tom, but when is Tom ever not a cause of anything Chris feels?—but something else, something he can’t name yet.

> (Narration continues) I said that all ideals are illusions, that all they are is the reality wrapped in so many deceptive layers. A good example of this is my Tom who sometimes seems to know nothing but insults and whose purpose of life, at times, is frustrating me to death and allowing me to experience a circle of hell so that I learn my lesson and behave before I actually go to one once I die.
> 
> Okay, I got sidetracked. Since I mentioned layers, guess I have to use the onion reference here. Tom is an onion; he makes me cry.
> 
> That was a joke.

Chris shakes his head at how silly he’s being, but he doesn’t stop writing, because partly, he hopes that writing will help him think better and eventually allow him to find this “something else” that has been frustrating him lately in their relationship and mostly, he’s supposed to be sulking over whatever insult Tom threw at him half an hour ago.

> Tom is my onion. I became, like many others, so desperate to find this ideal love of mine. When I first met Tom, he was the perfect model of this ideal. However, after peeling many, many layers off of Tom, I realized that everything was a lie. Tom, who I thought was perfect for me, was a lie. And now I can’t go on a day without sighing in frustration and anger.
> 
> Oh, ideals, how you deceive me!
> 
> P.S. Did I mention that Tom is a great big bag of dicks?

Chris smiles at the very last sentence he typed with satisfaction. The funny thing is which Chris notices with a pleasant surprise is that he had a smile on his face the whole time he was typing his childish thoughts. So He turns his laptop off, once again, his words unsaved, and heads to the small balcony where Tom loves to read.

Tom doesn’t even bother to look up from the book he’s been reading when Chris slides the door open to join him in the balcony, but Chris isn’t bothered by it. He places his hand on Tom’s hair to brush his curls, still slightly wet from his shower a while ago, moving along the warm breeze outside.

“You should go inside and dry your hair first,” Chris suggests, but Tom doesn’t even budge. With a soft sigh, Chris brings another chair—they got two outdoor chairs from the thrift store for the balcony, green and red, and the red has always been Chris’—to sit beside him. Tom shifts and leans on Chris’ chest asking him to put his hand back on his hair.

“I compared you to an onion,” Chris finally says quietly brushing Tom’s hair.

“I’m the one rotten to the core, aren’t I?” Tom asks with a smirk on his face, his eyes still on the book.

“No, you weren’t an onion in the first place. I just thought you were,” Chris answers and he feels like he’s figured something out. Just not quite yet, since he’s so caught up with how beautiful Tom is, reading one of his favorite books that he’s already read at least five times during their relationship as the sun is setting in front of them.

“I also wrote that you’re a great big bag of dicks.” Chris grins as Tom finally takes his eyes off the book and laughs.

“You’re such a child, Chris,” he says, still laughing, his tongue sticking out a bit and Chris can’t help but kiss him. He feels Tom’s giggles inside their kiss and everything feels so right.

.

.

Nearly a week later, Chris is back on his laptop writing down his last thoughts towards this matter. He bites his nails for a few seconds until he thinks of Tom pulling his hand away from his lips, glaring at him and telling him that it’s a terrible, nasty habit that he should stop. He can’t possibly bite his nails when there’s Tom telling him not to even if it’s just inside his head and not in person.

Chris turns his eyes to the clock on the wall. It’s almost midnight, which means Tom should be back soon, and for some reason, Chris feels oddly nervous tonight. So he continues to type to distract himself until he hears Tom’s keys jangling outside to open the door.

> (Narration continues) Was there a moment of epiphany? No, it was a series of epiphany. Okay, maybe using the word “epiphany” would be an exaggeration in this case. Or actually, maybe it is just the right time to use this word.
> 
> We all live desperately searching for the ideal. Last time, I wrote that ideals are an illusion, that they are layers and layers of deception and we realize that once we peel off everything, the person we’re looking at is no different from everyone else around us. Well, at least not by much.
> 
> The word “ideal” is an exaggeration. This “ideal love” that I’ve been searching for all my life is an exaggeration. So really, there never could have been a better time for me to have used the word “epiphany” than now.
> 
> You know how I felt when Tom wasn’t so ideal as I thought he’d be? I was angry. I was angry at all the songs I used to love listening to, all the books I used to love reading, and all the movies I used to love watching. I was angry at them for making me believe in this false ideal. I blamed Tom for deceiving me, for trying to pretend that he was my ideal love.
> 
> But honestly, what fault does he have? _I_ wrapped _him_ with my ideals, wrapped his beautiful soul over all my disgusting ideals like a goddamn onion. I hid him away and only saw him the way I wanted to and when he would try to escape from that stinkin’ onion, I would get mad. Now that’s a fuckin’ selfish thing to do, don’t you think?
> 
> I forced my ideals on Tom for a year, maybe more. The second year, I think Tom peeled those foolish, bothersome things off him. Almost nearing our third year, I noticed that Tom wasn’t anything like the first time we met—thank goodness for that—and for a while, I felt betrayed and deceived, blind from the truth that it was actually _me_ who was doing all the hurting and deceiving to myself, to him, to us.
> 
> Tom is so different from what I’ve dreamed of all my life. He can be strong as Iron Man’s titanium-gold alloy suit, but fragile as a glass that’s about to break. He can break me and mend me in seconds like Loki does with words, probably because he reads so much.
> 
> Also, he’s a light sleeper, so everything wakes him up pretty much, which makes him the crankiest person on Earth sometimes, but I think he’s getting better at it. His doctor said that it was from his anxiety and stress, so I guess it’s good that he’s sleeping better, right?
> 
> Oh, and I can’t leave this out. Despite him being a light sleeper, when he’s awake and he believes everyone needs to, too, then he plays these weird jazz songs that fills the apartment, never failing to wake me up. Nearly every morning, I’m tempted to break his iPod and that goddamn high quality speaker that deafens me.
> 
> He also hoards, just a little bit, and to make the matters worse, he doesn’t like cleaning up anywhere else besides the kitchen area, which leave me to clean and organize everywhere else. Half of the time on cleanup days, I’m persuading Tom to throw some of the old, nearly ancient, items away so that we’d have space for our not-so-spacious apartment, but like I said before, Tom has a way with words. We’re thinking about renting a storage unit soon, but I really hope I can somehow persuade him to throw his old things away so we won’t spend extra money we don’t need to spend.
> 
> Tom’s stubborn and sometimes cruel and insulting with his words, but he’s the Tom that I’ve been in love for years.
> 
> When he can’t sleep at night because something’s bothering him, I know that he looks at me, instead of counting sheep. He entwines his fingers with mine and listens to my heartbeat until sleep takes over him. One time, he said that listening to my heartbeat comforts him more than anything. It gives him consistency. It gives him permanence.
> 
> Oh, almost forgot to mention this about those jazz songs. He loves the oldies. Sometimes, after dinner, when I’d be relaxing on the couch drinking the coffee that always taste so marvelous because Tom made it, he’d turn on those songs again swinging his hips left and right, singing along and lifting me up from the couch, asking me for a dance like we’re at a 1920s party. I would dance with him sometimes and I know I should dance more often with him, because goodness, that makes him so happy and he’s the most beautiful thing ever when he’s happy.
> 
> It’s a funny thing. It’s a foolish thing, actually, that it took nearly three years for me to realize how Tom is the right person for me. I believe I’ve loved him every single day since I’ve met him. There were moments when we’d shout and argue only to end with laughter in the end, because we knew we couldn’t hate each other. No matter how hard we tried to hate each other, we would have found a way to forgive each other. And it took me, for crying out loud, nearly three years to realize why; I never truly saw the reason behind these patterns of loving and fighting and forgiving.
> 
> And now I do. Hence, the epiphany! Yeah, I am officially the dumbest -

Chris hears the keys jangle outside, so he shuts his laptop and rushes to open the door for Tom. His eyes are wide in surprise before they immediately change to that of suspicion. Chris doesn’t even try to explain the reason behind his strange behavior. He simply turns Tom around so that he can cover his questioning eyes with his hands.

However, Tom doesn’t question him. Instead, he laughs like Chris expects; Tom loves surprises. Chris slowly guides him into the living room and stands next to where their television is. When he moves his hands, Tom blinks a couple times to find two different mysterious objects wrapped carelessly with wrapping papers that has a pattern of the word, “surprise!” written all over them.

Tom turns around with one of his eyebrows quirked. “Seriously? Do I need to sign you up in class to wrap gifts properly?”

Chris scoffs and rolls his eyes. “It’s not the outside that matters. It’s the inside, right? Just open them!”

Before Tom starts unwrapping the gifts as he’s told, however, he pulls Chris closer to him for a sloppy kiss, wrapping his arms tightly around his waist. Chris pulls him closer, kissing him back, his hands already pushing inside Tom’s shirt, feeling the soft, warm skin underneath. He wants nothing more than to push Tom down to the floor and fuck him right there until both of them end up with carpet burns and a mess on the carpet to clean up the next morning, but he stops his mind from going further and further into his dirty imagination and pushes Tom gently off his heated body.

“Gifts first, sex later,” he says trying regain his composure at least for the next five minutes. Tom smiles and nods, his hands tearing the terribly wrapped wrappers.

When he unwraps the first one, the bigger one of the two, Tom goes silent for a moment before he starts breathing again. He turns his face to the side to see Chris smiling rather shyly at him.

“I can’t believe it,” he says as he touches the gramophone with such astonishment. _Open the other one_ , Chris whispers into his ear as he hugs him from behind. Tom laughs, and his laughs come out as sobs, all at once as he opens the remaining gift, handful of vinyl records of his favorite jazz artists.

“I’m sorry I kept on refusing when you wanted to eat out. I was saving up to get you these,” Chris says wrapping his arms tighter around Tom. Tom turns around shaking his head as if he still doesn’t fully believe Chris actually got these for him. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but he ends up closing it again and again as if he’s not able to find the right word. Now that was something new for Chris to see.

“Can I play it?” Tom asks finally and instead of giving him an answer, Chris grabs one of the records and hands it to Tom to play.

_Things have come to a pretty pass; our romance is grown flat, for you like this and the other while I go for this and that; goodness knows what the end will be, oh, I don’t know where I’m at …_

“Really? From all the songs here, you gave me this?” Tom narrows his eyes at Chris’ song choice. “This isn’t some kind of a goodbye present, right? I mean, I did think it was a little odd that you gave me these when you hate my songs so much, but-”

“Just shut up and dance with me,” Chris cuts off, one grabbing Tom’s hand and the other holding Tom’s waist. “I only hate them when you use them to wake me up. I know all the lyrics to all these songs, thanks to you,” He continues as he guides Tom in the small living room, stepping Tom’s foot every four steps he makes. He kindly ignores Tom's comment, "This isn't even a good song to dance," as he leads the dance.

_But oh, if we call the whole thing off, then we must part, and oh, if we ever part, then that might break my heart …_

“I love you,” Tom says so quietly that Chris almost misses it, but he doesn’t. So he hugs Tom closer and tighter and answers just as quietly, “I love you, too.” Tom doesn’t miss what he says, no. After all, they know each other too well that hiding anything, even the slightest, has become nearly impossible.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is greatly appreciated
> 
> also posted on [tumblr](http://ambiguouslines.tumblr.com/tagged/ideals_and_whatnot)


End file.
